Skyfall
by Suggestive Wiggling
Summary: I've been falling for so long, I don't even notice the wind rushing past my ears. I am part of the loud silence. I feel absent without the screaming, driving gale that burns my skin and closes my eyes. The pain has become my normality. But now, the pain is gone and I'm floundering; looking for a normal I no longer recognize. All I know is I'm not falling anymore.
1. Might As Well Be Harlem

**Skyfall**

_An Original __Newsies__ Fanfiction_

* * *

My mother had once said that there was nothing more beautiful than the sky just before the rising morn. At the time, I had disagreed openly—justifying that it was the little pastries, with their delicate marzipan leaves in red and blue, the ones vendors sold along Madison Avenue that we were never able to afford, that were the most beautiful.

But now, with the new dawn finally breaking through New York's perpetual cloud cover, I realize how right she was. Pink streaking soft cream, much like a satin pillow a man might give his lover, sparkles brilliantly against the bright robin's-egg blue of the lower segment; and beyond that, dark navy stretches into endless oblivion. A zigzagging patchwork quilt in the sky, I muse. Mom had always been good at those. That woman could've made a quilt out of anything; be it a scrap of romper, or a wind-blown pair of suspenders found behind some musty crates on the far end of Herald Square. It was her talent, her contribution to the little merry band of misfits we called a family. No one in Harlem was better at sewing or piecing together cloth than Mom.

Couldn't cook worth a damn, though.

It's when the sun breaks over the crest of Manhattan that I finally waken fully. The day is new, there are papers to be sold, and I haven't eaten anything since yesterday morning. A series of pronounced cracks expel from my bones as I straighten; the joints stiff from cold and lack of movement. Sleeping under a tree isn't optimal, but Prospect Park allows more shelter than most street corners tend to. I don't even bother fixing my hair as I work my way through some sparse underbrush; letting the short, brown strands fall loose around my face. My life has never really permitted much leeway in the realm of self-cleanliness, allowing the soot covering my skin to feel much a part of me now.

When I finally make it to the edge of Prospect, I silently rejoice at the fortune of the early hour. The streets are still pretty quiet, newsboys and vendors alike remaining in their beds until absolutely necessary. It's understandable, considering the recently turn of weather- which we might as well sum up plainly as "damn ass-freezing". The sudden onslaught of cold kept the entire borough under their blankets in a sort of late-morning haze that I unfortunately did not have the time or dime to enjoy. The unspoken gain, however, was that while they hunkered, shivering like pineapples caught in a flash snowstorm, I got the streets of Brooklyn all to my little ol' self. Clear, quiet, crisp as an autumn apple; it was Heaven on earth. My profession is being surrounded by multiple forms of chaos, submerged in screaming and scheming for the better part of fifteen hours a day. A little silence is occasionally appreciated.

The walk is disappointingly short, and I arrive at my destination in record time. The Distribution Center looms ghoulishly over my head; remaining unwelcoming in all its chilly, authoritative glory. I personally think that our beloved Teddy Roosevelt could have made a more accelerated effort to brighten the place up—what with the whole Newsie Strike madness a while back, you'd think they'd take more authority in bringing a bit of light into the city's sweatshops. But no; the place is still gloomy as a crypt. A crypt located in the deepest pit of Hell, haunted by Lucifer himself.

That leviathan might as well be Harlem.

The bell tome suddenly explodes over the fenced-in yard, surprising a flock of pigeons nestled in the confines of the belfry. They take off with in mad flapping storm of grey and white; hooting indignantly all the way. I snort in surprise, feeling a sparse, airy tuft land on my hair. It's a feather. Which is kind of appropriate—seeing how my hair currently holds the likeliness towards a bird's nest.

But after untangling the two to get a glance, I find that the feather itself is much prettier than I'd expected. Pristinely white, clean, with just a dapple of dawn-colored splotches along the outer edge. It looks more like a swan's feather than it does statue-perching pigeon fuzz. Hm. Finding it too interesting to just drop back on the somber cobblestones, I stuff it into my pocket before moving to join the slowly-growing trickle of newsies heading into the Center.

After a few minutes of shuffling, I find myself sandwiched in the rough line snaking up to the pape office. From what I can tell, the group is mostly made up of Brooklyn's newsie cartel. As usual, I focus on keeping my head down and my eyes hooded—remaining stoic without trying to appear threatening. That's the only way to survive around this bunch, I've found. I might talk a good game; occasionally slap the sweet Bejesus out of some over-confident Chelsea halfwits, but I know when enough is enough. Here's the jist of it: you don't mess with Brooklyn unless you want to wake up pinned to the bottom of the East River. One glance over at the hulking newsboys—not older than seventeen, but still looking like warhorses in their prime—and anyone with rocks for brains would know better than to so much as poke them with a ten foot pole.

Two boys dressed in ragged flannel have taken the space behind me in line; and I can smell their breakfast probably better than they can. A shiver dances down my spine, not enjoying the sensation of other humans inside my personal bubble. My initial impulse is to hurl the most repellant look I can in their general direction—but at the last second, I decide that I'd much rather live. Resigned, I tug my cap's rim down and try to disappear.

My experience with newsies is limited to one incident. It was not a pleasant experience. It can be summed up in but a few words: Bronx's Lay-low Jones has been successfully taught to keep his hands (and other appendages) to himself. I now know to keep both hair and hide as far from the rowdy newspaper rogues as possible.

Of course, it was impossible to avoid them _completely. _I guess you could say I kind of worked "with" them—"with" being a highly stretched term. Really, there were necessary courtesies required of those in the same business—an expressionless nod to one another when passing in the street, allowing the other to purchase papers without some kind of riot breaking out. It was far from friendship, that was for sure, but no one had died (recently); and in Brooklyn, that's what we call a successful partnership.

Stepping up to the purchase box, I offered the stout man working the counter a tight-lipped smile. "Hey Casper. You look well this morning."

He chuckles, bright doe-eyes dancing in perfect time with his portly gut. "Mornin', Annie. You're lookin' pretty well yourself." Casper pauses, reassesses, then adds, "Still too skinny, though. Need to get some meat on them bones of yours soon. You'll shrivel to nothin' come winter."

"Don't you go and worry yourself, Cas. I'm stronger than I look." I smile again—though it's mostly a reassurance towards him. Casper, portly and lovable as he may be, sees quite a lot from his little box in the wall. The old guy doesn't need one more thing to nibble his nails about. "But I could do with some papes right about now."

"The usual?"

"Please."

There's some shuffling around under the table as Cas gathers the papers up. He reemerges a moment later, toupee slightly askew, stubby fingers clutching the ink stained parchment. We make the exchange; I grimace as I hand over my last few coins, having to bite my lip as the dull copper disappears into the strongbox. That was all I had left from yesterday's sale. A soft sigh escapes me, realizing I'll have to skip breakfast. _Again. _

The papers feel heavier than stones in my hands as I turn to go; not so much as moving to respond to Casper's friendly farewell. I didn't even hear it. The momentary panic that comes with being utterly penniless leaves me with a cold, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—all of which I pray won't be recognizable on my face. The last thing I need is a barrage of war-hardened news boys thinking I'm some kind of weakling.

I'm so caught up in my inward battle that I don't even realize, against my better attempts to elude, I've attracted a bit of unwanted attention. And with me, _all_ attention is unwanted, and is almost immediately discarded. In the past, just a glance from a passerby would make my heart beat a little faster—and not in the way deemed by flattery. After all was said and done, I just wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere warm and secluded, with no people to laugh down at me; to kick me in the ribs as they passed. And then just quietly let myself fade away.

All I ever wanted was to be invisible.

And, thanks to the crowd that I quickly submerged myself in upon feeling eyes upon me, I got just that.


	2. Taming Of the Street Rat

**|2|**

**Taming Of the Street Rat**

* * *

The sun is just a slit of orange overtop Brooklyn's stout skyline when I finally sell off my final paper to a rotund woman lavished in more rings than I'd ever seen. As she flutters away in a cloud of bright fuchsia petticoats, the exhaustion finally kicks me in the gut.

_Hard._

My back snags against the rough cobblestones of the wall as I sink to the ground, head in hands. I feel like Hell; made even worse than usual what with me not eating in the last twenty-four hours. My head pounds in steady time with my parched tongue—I've been screeching like a madwoman since sunup and my vocal chords are fried—not to mention the general tiredness that comes with crowd manipulation. Only now that_ I'm_ done screeching, my body isn't.

It was not at all a pleasant feeling.

The playful tinkling of a bell accompanied by a young woman's laugh broke through my haze of self-pity. I raised my heavy head at the noise. From the shadow of the alleyway, I see it's a young couple; not any older than seventeen or eighteen. Both wear the ragged garb of street urchins, though neither seemed hampered by their low status. In fact, it was clear that society was far from their minds. Grinning, the young man holds open the door for his giggling lass, brushing a quick hand over her silky blonde hair as she passes by him. She With Blonde Hair titters loudly and swats him away—though her smile says she really doesn't mind the attention. As they make their slow pace down the street, he bumps her shoulder affectionately. She takes the gesture in stride, intertwining their fingers.

Once their voices fade away, I sigh heavily and pull myself to my feet. I really need to find some food—and soon. Casper had been right this morning when he said I'd need more meat on my bones in order to last the winter. And I have no intention of dying young, thank you very much.

There's a bar just down the street from where I'm situated in the alleyway, and this is where I head. It's a small place, mostly empty albeit a few men hunched in resigned silence over their foul-smelling tankards, but the food is good and cheap. As an added bonus, the owner keeps his jaw locked at any whiff of the Bulls. Not that I'm a registered criminal (not in any of _their _books, at least), but you can never be too careful.

I take a stool at the far end of the bar, making sure to keep away from the scant population of customers. For the most part, no one seems to notice me; either too invested in drowning their sorrows in a pint of cheap alcohol or just lacking interest.

"What can I getcha', sweets?" A lone barmaid asks over the counter. I'm not sure if she thinks I'm a boy and is trying to get a larger tip by flirting with me, or if she's just endearing to strangers out of habit. But, hey; who am I to argue with the achievements of false sympathy?

"Beef stew, please. And if I could get some salted crackers on the side, that'd be great."

As she sweeps off to find my meal, I take the time to assess my meager funds. There isn't a lot jangling around in my purse—admittedly, there rarely is—but there's been even less as of late. With winter coming on stronger every day, it's becoming more and more difficult to keep myself warm at night. This meant investments in thicker clothing, heartier foods becoming more expensive, and a shorter time span in which to sell papes. After counting, recounting, subtracting the cost of my meal, and counting again, I am left with a small handful of tarnished coppers.

My stomach sinks to the paper-thin soles of my boots. The pennies are hardly enough to cover tomorrow's morning edition, let alone the purchase of another hot meal. During the summer, this wouldn't have been a problem; sales always go better when the sun is shining. Makes people more gracious, I suppose. Autumn and winter are when things start to get rougher. The weather's been getting nippier with every passing day and I just can't afford to be missing meals like I have been. But the raw truth is that I can't really "afford" them now.

Like always, my stress is absent from my face; the only show of discomfort shown in my nails, which tap the countertop a million miles a minute.

What in God's name am I going to without money to feed myself?

Well, the answer is simple enough. I'm going to waste away, just like Casper said; crumble down into nothing. One day some kids will be playing in Prospect and they'll find me, lying under my tree like usual. But I won't even be a body. No, no, I'll have diminished to dirt by then. Just a nice, neat, little pile of dust, which the wind will pick up and scatter all over the city so even in death I'll feel alone. Brody always said I wouldn't amount to much, so dust seems appropriate enough—

A hand covers mine suddenly, and a low voice sounds not inches from my ear. "How 'bout you slow down that tapping of yours, princess, before you hurt yourself."


End file.
